


You'll Never Know

by BarnesRogersVsTheWorld



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 17:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15200030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld/pseuds/BarnesRogersVsTheWorld
Summary: Steve spends his 100th birthday reflecting back on Bucky's.





	You'll Never Know

Steve had half expected the modest hut alongside the glittering thread of river that cut through the Wakandan countryside to be derelict. Condemned and neglected. Already crumbling, empty and hollow like his gut as he stood before it on the familiar foot worn path. 

 

It defied rational thought. So little time had passed. Nowhere near enough for it to show the same wear he felt in his soul. 

 

Seventy years had left him in the blink of an eye. But these. These last months had passed painfully slow. Tortuously slow. He could have lived a hundred years several times over in them alone. He felt ancient.

 

Surely the hut would reflect that. 

 

But no. There it stood. Quaint. Intact. As if it had been waiting for him all along.

 

_

 

Bucky barreled into him with an _oof_ , pulled him into a one armed embrace that showcased his ever present strength. He was shirtless, his skin sun warmed and hot against Steve’s own. He was covered in dirt. In sweat. But Steve didn’t care, because his laugh was bright, nostalgic enough for him to feel like he was home.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” It was spoken with surprise and delight as Bucky released him, took a step back and looked him over. 

 

Not since the previous December, when they hadn’t had gifts to exchange, but had shared several bottles of Wakanda’s own sweet, red wine, had Steve seen that face grinning up at him. 

 

It had been too damn long.

 

“And what is this?” Bucky asked as he gestured toward Steve, “Are you growing out your hair?” He mimed a hand across his face, “You have a bit of a shadow going on, too.”

 

Bucky raised his eyebrows, and Steve made a face, tipped his eyes up toward the sky, “Not that many barbers who cater to fugitives of the law.”

 

Bucky nodded importantly, suppressed the grin that threatened to split his mouth wide, “Ah. I see,” he shrugged, said too casually, “It’s rugged. Very nomadic. You look good.”

 

And Steve made an exasperated noise, threw an arm around his shoulder, “Happy Birthday,” he laughed, “you jerk.”

 

_

  
  


It’s the rainy season now. July. No one greets him this time. No sun warmed skin presses against his own. Instead, water falls in sheets around Steve as he stares into the hut’s darkened entryway. It drips down his hair, cropped closer to his head than it has been in months. it lashes across his newly shaven face.

 

He’s soaked to the bone, every inch of skin wet and cold, before he’s brave enough to finally take a step inside. 

 

_

 

“Cooking for me on your own birthday,” Steve grinned, “That’s been done before.” 

 

Bucky stood at the small counter beside his sink, back facing Steve. Water dripped off the ends of his freshly washed hair, spread dark patches across the heather gray shirt stretched tight across his broad back. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. Smiled at Steve after his insistence that _no_ , he could not help. And why didn’t he just relax and just take a load off for a change? Besides, Bucky had the one armed knife-work thing down pat.

 

“One of my favorites,” he said to Steve, furrowed his brow, “What was it...my eighteenth? Potatoes and hot dogs. Who could screw that up?”

 

His grin turned conspiratorial as he glanced again at the Captain. Steve only smiled back, close lipped and almost bashful under Bucky’s gaze, “You managed to,” he clapped his hands together, “So. The big one hundred today. Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

 

“Ah,” Bucky shrugged, turning away again, “Why would I? All the best ones I only spent with one other person anyhow.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Steve chuckled. Heat crept up his neck, “Burnt potato year was one of my favorites, too.” 

 

A piece of carrot sailed over Bucky’s shoulder, grazing Steve’s ear as he dodged its path.

 

_

 

The world has changed. Steve’s world has changed. But inside the hut’s walls, time has stood still. The bed is still unmade, disheveled and messy. Definitely more Brooklyn kid than disciplined Sergeant. Clothes still drape across the footboard. A makeshift rack holding pajamas reserved for a time that would never come. A drinking glass sits perched on the table, empty and waiting to be refilled. 

 

It still looks lived in. like it’s merely waiting for its owner’s return. 

 

The lightest settling of dust along every surface is the only indication it waits in vain. 

 

_

 

“Hey,” Steve said, sitting down in his chair again after his insistence on helping Bucky clean up. Polite, Steve called it. Pushy, Bucky countered. He leaned back, full and content, Bucky’s cooking vastly improved from the days of scorched potatoes. A smile played on his lips, “you remember everything about your eighteenth?”

 

Bucky perched against the counter, swallowed a large gulp of water from his glass as he contemplated. Slowly, his mouth curved into a grin, “We got drunk off my folks’ cheap liquor that year, yeah?”

 

“You got drunk,” Steve countered, “I was sick enough off the dinner,” he laughed at Bucky’s affronted expression, “You were a nightmare.”

 

“I wanted to dance,” Bucky said slowly. It was edged in question.

 

“You could barely walk,” Steve confirmed, he waved his hands in front of him, as if to mime it, “you kept stumbling around. Convinced you could go out. Tried to prove me wrong when I said there was no way.”

 

He remembered it vividly. Bucky’s eager insistence that it’d be fun. That he just wanted Steve to have fun. _Couldn’t Steve just have fun?_ He remembered clumsy fingers threading through his own. He remembered his poor little heart hammering against his chest as breath, hot with liquor, tickled pleas against his ear. 

 

From the color that tinged Bucky’s cheeks, Steve could gather that, yes, he remembered, too.

 

“Do people still do that?” Bucky asked, “Go dancing?”

 

Steve dropped the legs of his chair onto the floor, breathed a laugh through his nose, “You know, I wouldn’t know? I’ve still never been.”

 

Bucky’s laugh was incredulous. He pushed off the counter and crossed the small space to the table beside his bed, “Jesus, Steve,” he said, tapping at a device on the tabletop, “These past few years without me - what’ve you been doing?”

 

He was still grinning when he turned to look at his friend. But Steve didn’t smile back. Steve leaned forward in his chair, held Bucky’s gaze as he delivered his answer. Soft but firm. Matter of fact on his lips, “Trying to find you.”

 

And Bucky’s smile slackened. He gave Steve a long look. Pulled his lip between his teeth. A million thoughts flashed behind gray blue eyes. 

 

Steve could not read a damn one of them. 

 

He was holding his breath when Bucky finally answered, “So I owe it to you to teach you myself, then. Don’t I?”

 

It wasn’t the response he expected. Steve wanted to laugh. To drown out the sound of his heart as it began to thrum in his ears. But the look in Bucky’s eyes quickly stifled it in his throat. 

 

“I always thought about offering,” Bucky continued as he turned back to the device perched on the table, “When we were kids. Guess I only had the nerve to when I was drunk.”

 

Light flickered beneath Bucky’s palm, formed a screen that hovered in front of him. The display juxtaposed starkly against the hut’s quaint simplicity. A blatant reminder that, despite the scenery, they were in the midst of one of the most technologically advanced societies in the world.

 

“C’mere,” Bucky called over his shoulder, “Your taste in music was always pretty pathetic, but I’ll let you give it a shot.”

 

_

 

He hadn’t planned on it upon walking in. Hadn’t predicted he’d be wrenching off his soaked shirt and pants in favor of the ones draped over the footboard. But Steve had made the mistake of touching them. Of shaking them out and bringing them to his nose. Of releasing a sob upon the realization that the distinct smell of fresh earth and citrus had not completely faded from them just yet. He tugs them on hastily now, gray sweatpants, soft blue cotton t-shirt. And he hugs his arms, tight and desperate across his chest. As if sheer strength and determination can summon back the man who last wore them.

 

_

 

He couldn’t remember the last time his heart beat so erratically. But it had to have been before everything. Before the serum. He stood in front of Bucky as he took slow, steadying breaths. Prayed the slow jazz crooning from the device on the able was loud enough so that his best friend could not hear it. 

 

Not that he was any good with discretion at all. Not that he had missed the look that had flashed across Bucky’s face as Steve selected the song.

 

_ You’ll never know just how much I miss you _

_ You’ll never know just how much I care _

 

“Your hands are always cold,” Bucky said, as he slipped warm fingers between Steve’s, “Cold hands warm heart. Isn’t that what your Ma said?”

 

Steve attempted a laugh. It was choked. Distracted, “To make me feel better about my poor circulation.”

 

“Maybe it’s just true,” Bucky answered, “your circulation’s perfect now,” his thumb swept the back of Steve’s hand, “Still cold.”

 

And Jesus. _Jesus._ Steve couldn’t breathe. He was doing this on purpose. He had to be doing this on purpose. 

 

Bucky directed Steve’s arm around him as he joked, “Hold me a bit tighter. You’ll find my left grip is a little weak.”

 

But Steve couldn’t smile.

 

“We’ll do a simple box step,” he continued, “Left foot first. They go out-together, out-together.”

 

“What if I step on your toes?”

 

“It’ll hurt a lot more than it would’ve when we were eighteen.”

 

Again, no laugh. Bucky squeezed his hand, “Come on,” he drawled, “You won’t step on my toes. It’s intuitive. Just listen to the music.”

 

_

 

_ And if I tried, I still couldn’t hide my love for you _

_ You ought to know, for haven’t I told you so _

_ A million or more times? _

 

Was it cruelty? Self inflicted torture? 

 

The bed was small for one. Impossibly tiny for two. But Steve always regarded the closeness fondly. Sitting on the edge of it now. Alone. It felt huge.

 

It felt wrong. 

 

_

 

Bucky was pressed against him. Flush and warm. The scent of citrus and earth lingered in his hair, relaxed Steve’s breathing. Calmed his heart. Again gave him that familiar feeling of being home. 

 

He didn’t know how long they danced. How long they swayed together as that song played on one continuous loop.

 

_ You went away and my heart went with you _

_ I speak your name in my every prayer _

 

“You want to lead now?” Bucky murmured finally. It was soft, too quiet to disrupt the moment, “You know, in case you want to impress a few dames.”

 

But Steve didn’t shift his hold. Didn’t halt their ever slowing movement as he answered in an already fleeting moment of confidence, “What if I just want to impress you?”

 

For the briefest second, Steve felt Bucky’s breath hitch. Felt his fingers twitch against his own. But when he answered, his words were a tease, “You should probably let me keep leading, then.”

 

And Steve chuckled. Leaned back and looked down. Sea gray eyes locked his.

 

“Still so strange,” Bucky said.

 

Steve raised a brow. His heart hammered in his chest again. 

 

“Having to look up to see you.”

 

His mouth twitched into a smile, “Only a bit.”

 

“Still. It’s more obvious now. Easier to be discreet when you’re the taller one.”

 

“Yeah, I’m learning,” Steve answered as he ceased movement. As he released Bucky’s hand. The shorter man’s eyes fell away from him. An embarrassed smile crested his lips as he made to step away from Steve. The tiptoeing, the playfulness, finally seemingly taken a bit too far. 

 

But to Bucky’s surprise, Steve still held fast to his waist. The hand that moments ago clasped his drifted upwards, tangled into dark locks.

 

“Bucky-” Steve said. It was sweet on his lips. And bolder than it had ever been. He cupped the side of Bucky’s face, directed those eyes back to his.

 

“My favorite birthday of yours,” he said, “was your one hundredth.” 

 

Bucky blinked. Let out a slow, timid breath, “Why’s that?”

 

“Because it was the one where this...stupid little punk - who has spent so much of his time just fighting to get back to this one jerk...it was the one where he decided he was tired of dancing around his feelings.”

 

“Must’ve been an awkward dance. Considering he just learned how-“

 

“Buck-” It was a smile on Steve’s lips. Scared and timid and not sure if he was about to make the biggest mistake of his life. But Bucky didn’t shrink away. Bucky held that gaze. Mirrored that smile.

 

“So,” and it was a whisper, “what’d he do about it?”

 

It was enough of a request for Steve to take the leap. He hadn’t had many kisses. Significantly less than Bucky. But he knew in an instant this one was different. 

 

This one weakened his knees. Numbed his extremities. Quickened his breath and startled his heart. It spoke of love. Love between friends. Between lovers. Love given and love taken. Love shared. Love lost and found a thousand times over. 

 

And when they broke apart, Steve looked down at Bucky. Felt the world shift beneath him. Felt all the pieces fall into place as his mind confirmed what his heart always knew. 

 

Home.

 

Bucky Barnes was his home.

 

The dark haired soldier smiled up at Steve, “Only took him a century.”

 

_

 

The left side of the bed still creaks. Still squawks in protest as Steve slouches over onto the mattress. Pulls the blankets up to his chin. From the table beside him, Vera Lynn croons.

 

_ If there is some other way to prove that I love you _

_ I swear I don’t know how _

 

If he only closes his eyes, maybe it can be a different day entirely.

 

-

 

His lips actually hurt. Never in his life could Steve imagine kissing someone until he was sore from it. But there he was, smiling as Bucky’s fingers ghosted over his swollen, pink mouth, pressed a kiss to it that was a contented sigh more than anything. Gentle. Loving.

 

Steve had swiped that mouth across every inch of Bucky. Every curve and dip and hollow. Every stretch and bulge of muscle. Hard and soft. 

 

Steve had _worshipped_ him. 

 

He’d pulled breaths of longing, need, desire from between Bucky’s lips as he’d kissed his chest. Torso. Thighs.

 

He had drawn gasps of uncertainty and fear that quickly morphed to gratitude, to whimpers of thanks and love, as he’d kissed every mottled scar massed along Bucky’s shoulder. As Steve had tasted the salt of his skin on his tongue while whispering murmurs of adoration. 

 

_Beautiful_ , he had said, _you’re so beautiful._

 

And with a steady ease that played Bucky’s heart like a violin:

 

_ I love you.  _

 

Bucky watched him as he pressed those swollen lips together, curved them into a small smile and fluttered his eyes closed. He kissed him just beneath the long, dark lashes that rested along the high points of his cheekbones. 

 

“Ninety-eight,” Steve murmured.

 

“Hmm?”

 

His eyes fluttered open again, “You said it took me a century. I’m ninety-eight.”

 

Bucky suppressed a smile, his shoulders quaked with laughter as he relaxed onto the mattress, “You been holding on to that one for the past few hours? Or did you just think of it?”

 

Steve shifted so that he was the one hovering over Bucky again, he smirked, “Ninety-nine in July. Still a far cry from a hundred.”

 

“A far cry,” Bucky smirked, rolled his eyes, “So what you’re saying is I have plenty of time to plan on outdoing you?”

 

“Outdoing me?” It was Steve’s turn to smirk, “as far as one hundredth birthday gifts are concerned, I’m pretty confident I delivered.”

 

And Bucky laughed. Bared white teeth as he brought his hand to his chest. Affection bloomed in Steve’s own as he watched.

 

“I don’t know,” he said, “The things they can do here, Steve. Could probably light up the sky with your face if I asked for it. Red and blue stars exploding all around it. Your shield, but there’s a heart in the center. An arrow shoots through it and it explodes into a million smaller hearts, white like the stars,” Bucky raised his hand above his face, waved it around as he painted the visual for Steve. 

 

“Creative,” Steve answered. And Bucky cast his gaze upon him once again.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve shifted again, braced over Bucky and lowered himself just enough to brush noses, “But I hate to have to rain on your parade, pal. No fireworks in Wakanda in July. Not their Independence Day.”

 

Bucky’s hand drifted to Steve’s shoulder. Slid around behind his neck. Fingertips danced across the hair at the nape. When he smiled, it was soft. So gentle and full of love. 

 

“To me,” he said, “they were always for you, anyway.”

 

_

 

Tears leak from beneath his lashes, drift slowly down his cheeks. But Steve’s eyes remain resolutely closed. 

 

Bucky. Buck. _Oh Bucky_.

 

Soft, like a prayer.

 

_ You’ll never know if you don’t know now. _

 

There are no fireworks in Wakanda in July. 

 

It’s too rainy for them, anyhow.


End file.
